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by alp



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-15 21:13:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9257513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alp/pseuds/alp
Summary: In a world where they escaped Scarif, Jyn and Cassian take the opportunity to realize a part of the potential they nearly lost.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who read this before I noticed that the format was completely borked: I am very sorry.

She should not be alive.

 _They_ should not be alive.

_She had seen it. Cresting over the horizon, pocked and grey and terrible, and she knew that he had seen it, too, that he was aware they’d used up their chances. The turbolift plummeted. He was so close. His body was broken and bleeding, but he smiled, and she flooded with grief._

He still smells of bacta. Hasn’t been long since he was let out of the tank, and it’s a sure bet that the medics would not approve. He doesn’t seem to care, and neither does she.

His hands are hot. They’re so damn hot, and her skin is lighting up.

_He leaned against her. Her leg screamed in protest; agony lanced up her spine. She ignored it. He needed her. He was a scoundrel. He’d trained a rifle on her father’s head._

_But he needed her, and if she was being honest with herself, she needed him, too._

They still don’t trust her, not fully, even after all she’s done. She’s pissed as hell, but she also understands, because she wouldn’t have trusted herself if she were in their position, and Saw wouldn’t have, either. She hasn’t got anyone on this stinking moon. Every person, sentient or otherwise, who might have been a comrade is dead and gone.

Except him.

And wouldn’t you know, he’s the one who makes her stomach ache.

He kisses her on the back of her neck, then on her backbone, then in the space between her shoulder blades. Her eyes roll back into her head.

_There was a flash of light, distant, spreading outward from its focal point. He was rasping, and all she could hear was the sound of his breath. It was hard to move through the sand. She couldn’t have said why they bothered to make the effort._

She curves her arm around his head and draws his mouth to hers. She’s brutal about it, biting his lips, digging her nails into his hairline, forcing back his tongue. There’s a need burning within her that overrides all sense. He is fertile ground, and she must burrow into him.

He sucks air through his teeth. “Jyn.” It’s barely a whisper. Her fingers are wrapped around him. He bucks into her hand, and then grabs at the buttons on her trousers, pulling, separating, pushing down. She wriggles her hips.

The last man to touch her was not wanted a quarter as much as she wants him.

_Water receded from the beach._

_There was a line. There was a smooth, even plain of sand, damp and discolored. They stumbled toward its end, and her strength gave out, and so did his, and they found themselves on their knees._

_She did not want to die._

His chest is heaving. His stomach is caving in. His hips are sinuous, and his thighs are in her hands.

He’s hairier than she expected.

She likes that.

She sucks on the spot beneath his navel, reaches up and grabs one of his pecs. Moves down.

When she takes him in her mouth, it’s a triumph. Cassian is not a man to admit to vulnerability. But he takes a sharp breath, and growls, and she knows that she’s got him, and a perverse part of her wants to make sure that he knows it, that he grasps exactly what it is that she’s done.

She draws her tongue up his length and smiles when he tilts back his head.

_The ground began to sing, its voice a low, insistent hum. It vibrated up through her legs, spread into her torso. There was a wall approaching, made of water and earth and light._

_Cassian looked at her. His face was serene, and she wished that she could feel as certain and content as he. But all she could think about was home, and how she’d never get to rest within it._

He pulls her up and rolls her over with a vehemence that thrills her. He slides his hand between her legs, presses his lips to her ear; she wants to laugh.

“Jyn,” he says again. Harsh, throaty. She turns her head and kisses his neck.

It won’t be long, before he’s back in the field. He’s an asset, a valuable one, and the Alliance can’t afford to sideline him any longer than strictly necessary. She wonders if they’ll use him against the Death Star. She wonders if they’ll have warmed up to her enough by then to let her go with him.

They ought; it’s her right, for more reasons than one.

He sucks on her breasts, and she arches her back. He mirrors the path that she traced along his frame. Anticipation coils around her gut, and she has to restrain herself from pushing his head down.

She’s like him, guarded; usually doesn’t like for people to know. But he’s different. And anyway, he’s gone and let her in.

It’s the first time in years that she lets a lover hear her moan.

_She pushed her cheek into his. He buried his face in her neck. In their embrace, in the weight of his arms and the contours of his torso, in the lines that seemed made to meet and connect, she felt the full breadth of the potential that had underlined his smile. There was so much they could have been and done together. So much. She longed for it, intensely._

_The wall had begun to blot out the sky. The hum had become a roar._

_It was loud enough to mask the sound that had joined it._

Home is an abstract concept. Home is not, and has never been, Lah’mu; it is not Coruscant; it isn’t even Vallt. Nor is it Yavin 4, although that’s where she happens to have found it. It might have been on the old U-wing, and it had certainly been in the hangar bay and on the cargo shuttle.

But at its core, she thinks, it has something to do with here, with now, and with this.

He is above her and inside of her, and their legs are interlocked, over and around, her feet hooked under his calves. She gyrates as he thrusts. He digs his fingers into her thigh. One of her hands grasps his hip, and the other flattens against his chest, pushing him up, just a bit, just enough to look at him.

That’s another thing she usually doesn’t do: make eye contact.

But he has very nice eyes.

He kisses her, hard. She presses her pelvis to his and groans into his mouth.

_Her hair came free from its tether and whipped about her face. The sand around them became airborne, swirling upward; she sucked in a mouthful, coughed and retched. It was close, now. They tightened their grips on one another._

_He spoke. She couldn’t make him out; it sounded as if he were shouting to her, from a great distance._

_He spoke again, and something clicked._

_It wasn’t him. It wasn’t his voice._

_She considered the behavior of the wind, of the eddy of air that surrounded them, and trembled. It couldn’t be. It was impossible. Nay, it was_ stupid _. Heart thumping, she dared to pull her face away from Cassian’s, and look up._

She rolls him onto his back. They try to stay joined, but the bunk is narrow, and they have to scramble to keep from tumbling off the side of it. She plants her palms on his elbows and pins his arms above him. His knuckles knock against the wall.

He smirks up at her. She grins in return, reconnects their hips. Takes up the rhythm that’ll push her over.

His hair is clinging to his forehead. His pupils are dilated, his lips parted. A soft, guttural sound, rising up from deep within him, punctuates each of his breaths. The sight of him is nearly enough, all on its own.

_There, hovering just a few meters away, struggling to maintain its position in the wake of the approaching shock wave, was a U-wing with its hatch open. At the top of the ramp, along the side of the hold, stood a soldier._

_She still couldn’t make out what he was saying. But, then, she didn’t really have to._

He deserves more than they can ever give him. They’re not bad people; they’re just constrained by the reality of their situation. But that doesn’t make them any less frustrating, and it doesn’t change what she sees, or what she wants for him.

For them both.

Her concentration falters. She collapses forward, and he catches her, and snakes an arm up her back, and her tongue and teeth find his jaw, and their movements leak finesse until they’re entirely devoid of it. She shakes, and bites down on his shoulder. He may be allowed to hear her cry out, but she sure as shit doesn’t want the rest of the base to.

There is always a sort of beauty in release but this, again, is different. Need is replaced by more need, and her chest tightens from the depth of it. He laces his fingers through her hair. Grabs the back of her head. Holds her firmly in place. She lets him, waits for him, hangs onto him.

As she did on Scarif. As she intends to keep doing.

_She didn’t know how they found the strength to hobble onto the ship. They were exhausted, and Cassian’s head lolled, and her muscles filled with fire when she helped him to his feet, so much so that she screamed. She knew only that they’d done it, that they had to have. The actual series of moments was lost to her, eaten away by adrenaline, a blank placeholder that vaguely connected the resignation of the beach to the delirious relief of the hold._

_They lay on the floor. She met the gaze of the soldier, incredulous._

She breathes, and stares up at the ceiling, rocky, uneven. The length of his form lies along the length of her own.

He’s shuddering. She licks her lips. She’d gotten him. Oh, how she had gotten him.

He slides one arm under her head, drapes the other across her midsection. She shifts, moves so that she can look at him, furrows her brow. He had let down all manner of guards around her, but this was still unexpected.

“So...you’re a _cuddler_?”

_“Why did you stop for us?” she asked. It was hard to form the words. Her voice sounded small, hollow. “You shouldn’t have. You should have gotten away from the planet as fast as you could.”_

_The soldier paused, blinked._

“Yes.” He pushes himself up and onto his elbow. His face changes, and for a moment, she sees the man he is when he’s donning the mask. There’s something profoundly comforting about it. “Is there something wrong with that?”

_“Thought it’d be worth the risk. We don’t like leaving men behind, not if we can help it.”_

Usually, there is. Usually, she wants to get up and leave as quickly as possible.

_They should not be alive._

She shrugs, rolls onto her side, drags his hand along with her. “No.” There’s a moment of stillness and hesitation, but then he sighs and curls his body around her back. It’s hot and wet, and twitching, still, just enough for her to be able to notice.

She rests and comes down beside him, wrapped up in him. It's yet another thing she’s never done before.

It feels an awful lot like being home.


End file.
